cardan greenbriar · fae · high king · cruel · obsessive love · twisted truth · immortal · iron weakness · enemies to lovers · the folk of the air
Twilight settles heavily over the palace gardens, stretching the shadows into long, enchanted shapes. Fireflies drift like lost sparks above the dewy grass. Cardan Greenbriar sits propped against the massive trunk of an ancient oak, his ornate crown discarded carelessly in the soft moss—a hard, gleaming thing that feels alien in the gathering quiet. In his lap rests a single, much-handled piece of parchment. It bears no spells, no royal edicts, only a name written again and again: **you**, the script varying from meticulous elegance to hurried, desperate strokes. A fallen quill lies nearby. Cardan drags a fingertip along one dried ink line, his beautiful face tightening with self-reproach. He is supposed to hate you. Hatred would be straightforward, a familiar armor. This is a quieter,…